


Exhibition

by beccastanz



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Play, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Ben’s job is ambiguous...for now, Bisexual Ben Solo, Bisexual Kylo Ren, Bisexual Rey (Star Wars), Breathplay, Car Sex, Dom/sub, Dominant Ben Solo, Dominant Kylo Ren, Eating, Enthusiastic Consent, Exhibitionism, F/M, Food, Fucking Machines, Kink Negotiation, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Rey/Rose Tico, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Performance Art, Rich Ben Solo, Rich Kylo Ren, Safewords, Strangers to Lovers, Submissive Rey (Star Wars), Switching, The line between bratty sub and Dom is very thin dontcha think?, The line between pleasure Dom and sub is similarly thin, Trope Subversion, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, bratty Rey rights campaign, friends can Dom friends right?, no beta we die like men, only in fic can these two things coexist, stoplight safewords, the art is sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28947513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccastanz/pseuds/beccastanz
Summary: He’s a VIP at the most upscale BDSM club in the city, watching the exhibition from a private balcony.A new girl graces the stage, lithe form, piercing eyes.She’s exquisite, bound, spread to the gaze of the crowd. A machine fucks her, cunt and ass. He must have her. Tonight.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 103
Kudos: 385
Collections: Kinkuary Prompt Challenge





	Exhibition

**Author's Note:**

> The summary is a prompt I made up that I decided to fill myself, because...how could I not?
> 
> A contribution to #ReyloKinkuary: Becca’s first full-on BDSM AU.
> 
> Nary a plot in sight (yet), and no set update schedule or idea of length (yet). Consider yourself warned!
> 
> I’ve tagged for everything that is a sure thing so far, but will update tags as the story progresses. If I miss a tag, please let me know! 
> 
> As a note for the consent dynamics, the characters establish a stoplight system for their first encounter. This means either party can say “green” to mean everything is good, “yellow” to mean slow down/let’s talk, and “red” to automatically stop of the scene. Ideally, the first kink negotiation between two people would be more extensive than that of Ben and Rey’s first encounter, hence the “mildly dubious consent” tag, even though all acts are either discussed and consented to, or given a “green” response.
> 
> Huge thanks to [Trish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trish47/pseuds/Trish47) for the moodboard!

“Please welcome, a newcomer to the exhibition stage, Kira!”

The word _newcomer_ attracts his attention easily, the promise of something fresh too tempting to resist as he rises to lean against the railing of his private balcony. 

The Cantina is the most exclusive, upscale BDSM club in the city, all gleaming blacks and reds, perfect performers, and a two drink _maximum._

He swirls and savors his first glass of scotch, sobriety a requirement for any type of play, as fresh meat enters his vision.

She radiates a heady mix of confidence and feigned demurity, sin and savagery and submission. He rakes his gaze over her lithe form, lands on her piercing eyes. She looks at him for the briefest moment in her assessment of the crowd, and even from the balcony, he feels penetrated.

She wears strappy black, strips of fabric crossing over her chest, her back, stomach and hips, but—

_Oh._

There are straps on her hips, yes, and crossing leather and lace and silk on her thighs, but absolutely nothing covers her cunt.

And then she turns around, a small Domme he recognizes as Rose there with a length of black rope to tie her arms, and he sees that nothing covers her ass either.

The stage lights shine, reflect against the wetness already painting her thighs and ass.

And then, they wheel out the machine.

He nearly crushes the glass in his hand.

It’s a fucking machine—with two dildos. One is slimmer than the other, presumably the one that is about to fuck her ass in tandem with her cunt.

Ben has never before been so jealous of a machine.

He must have her, tonight.

He vaguely registers his half hard cock as he watches the girl—Kira, he reminds himself—bend over and straddle a bench.

Rose approaches, tests the binding of Kira’s arms behind her back as her chest and cheek press into the sleek leather of the bench. She drizzles more lube against the crack of Kira’s ass (which, he realizes, must be why she was already glistening, she must have prepped her ass before she came to the stage, and _fuck_ he wishes he could’ve been the one to do it, or could’ve watched her, directed her how to move her fingers, how to ready herself for his cock—).

Then, Rose procures a ball gag, fastens it around Kira’s head. Arousal meets anger in his gut; surely the club wouldn’t allow such a performance without safe words?

And to his relief, Rose presses two small red balls, matching the gag, into Rey’s crossed hands. If she needs to stop, he imagines all she must do is drop both balls.

Rose guides the heads of the dildos to Rey’s entrances, pulls at her hips, breaching with each bulbous head before stepping back. He can’t decide where to look.

He can see the press of Kira’s chest into the bench, her breathing more rapid, cheeks flushed, holes dripping and stretched, not yet fucked.

And then—

“Would the raffle winners please approach the stage?”

_Raffle?_

He waves over a waiter, one always close by for the VIPs.

If the man notices Ben’s tented slacks, he doesn’t say so.

“What do they mean, raffle?”

“Earlier tonight there was a raffle for club members to get the chance to control the machine, sir.”

Not his favorite use of the word “sir,” more deferential than deified, though he appreciates the sentiment.

He’s never loathed his job more, keeping him from the club until it was too late to get the chance to make this woman fall apart in front of the crowd.

“That’ll be all, thank you,” he bites, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

There appear to be three patrons lined up at the edge of the stage, Rose stepping back to allow them full control. He recognizes Hux and Phasma among the group, but the third participant is unfamiliar—and they go first.

A remote is pressed into their hand, and the machine whirs to life.

The first winner guides it slowly at first, alternating short thrusts of the dildos into her holes, just a few inches at a time. A tease. A warmup.

Ben wonders if he would have been so merciful if he’d arrived in time.

She starts whimpering, faint over the hubbub of the club—except he’s listening for it, ears straining in wonder.

She’s absolutely breathtaking, and when her hips shift backward, seeking _more,_ he resolves to do whatever it takes to have her in his bed.

Several minutes pass, her whimpers turning to moans, and she greedily accepts more and more until both implements have nearly breached her in their entirety.

Then, a timer dings, and Phasma gets the remote.

Ben knows both she and Hux are more in favor of edging than overstimulation, content to let their partners beg and plead for a single orgasm.

He doesn’t quite understand the appeal. Why have someone beg for release when they could be begging for mercy?

He watches Phasma set a brutal rhythm; each toy makes a full, deep thrust before pulling back, a heated pause as Kira writhes on the bench, chasing sensation, even as a puddle of drool collects beneath her mouth.

It’s the most gorgeous and frustrating thing he’s ever seen. The game goes on for agonizingly long minutes. He watches Kira’s flush color her entire body, strung up, desperate as each of her holes take turns being full.

And then, Hux.

In the transition, Rose returns only to add more lube, the slick puddle under Kira’s hips only widening.

Ben can see the glint in Hux’s eye as he presses a button.

Both toys press into Kira in tandem, filling both of her holes at once, and her scream of pleasure is forced beyond the gag, piercing in the air, loud enough that he’s sure the entire club can hear her, back rooms included. He can’t decide if he’d rather them all hear her or keep every noise she ever makes to himself.

The game goes on, both toys working into her at a devastatingly slow pace, and then not so slow at all, speed increasing as she whines and shakes and his gaze darts between her holes and her face, watching her inch closer and closer to the peak of pleasure. Her eyes start to roll back, hips bucking wildly, and he can recognize the signs of near orgasm and he wants to see her fall apart—

And then the machine stops. 

Hux smiles. Kira whimpers. The timer dings.

And Ben is furious.

How _dare_ she not be allowed to finish?

But when Rose approaches to pull the machine away, to remove the bindings, Kira still clings to the balls in her hands. She smiles around the gag, stands on wobbly legs, and leaves drips of wetness in her wake as she exits the stage.

Ben is snapping his fingers for a waiter before he can think.

“Yes, sir?”

“Invite Kira up. Now.” The man looks a bit startled at his request, possibly because he’s never actually brought someone up to his balcony. No, he prefers to hunt from above, find his target in the masses before pinning them in the throng below. But Kira...something feels different. He wants to see her, impress her, _have_ her.

Keep her.

So he softens the blow of his ask with a hundred dollar bill and a grunted _please_ and he waits.

He’s harder than he can ever remember being in recent memory, but refuses to touch himself. He will not have Kira approach to see him fisting his cock like a desperate man.

He will maintain control. Complete, utter control.

He manages to achieve half mast as he waits, the minutes dragging on until he’s sure she won’t come, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he misses his chance—

“Hello.”

_Oh,_ that voice. He wants to hear his name in that voice. Just in her greeting, he hears something foreign—British, perhaps. Gorgeous.

“Are you Kylo Ren?”

Ah, fuck. Not _that_ name. 

Well. Perhaps in due time.

She’s wearing a loose dress, long black sleeves pushed up to rest at her wrists and large buttons from the top of the V-neck all the way down to the hem. There’s something so soft about the way she looks, inviting him to wrap her in his arms while daring him to make those buttons skate across the floor.

He remembers motor function, and stands to greet her. If the movement draws attention to his height and build, so be it.

“Yes, I am.” He extends a hand, silently preens at how he dwarfs her when she extends hers in return. “Thank you for joining me.”

Something haughty passes over her features as she pulls away, her sleeves falling to rest mid-palm.

“Well, I had to meet the guy who thought I could possibly take another pounding tonight after what I just did.”

A quirked eyebrow.

_Oh._

She’s feisty. He’ll have to work for it. 

Something tells him it’ll be worth it.

“You didn’t come while you were up there, did you?”

Her mouth gapes and the image flashes through his mind of what it would look like to fuck her throat. She clenches her jaw shut when she realizes it’s open and shakes her head _no_ even through her shock at his perceptiveness. 

“Would you like to?”

A scoff, but even in the low light he can see her cheeks flush.

“Presumptuous of you, Mr. Ren.”

Her sass is something he simultaneously wants to spank out of her and drown in.

“Yes. So?”

She bites her lip and he wants to be the one to sink teeth into her flesh.

“Kira—”

“It’s Rey.”

He’s not used to being interrupted, but for her he could learn.

“Sorry?”

“My name. It’s Rey.”

He smiles, collecting little insights into who this gorgeous creature is and tucking them away for safekeeping.

“Rey. I would never do anything without your explicit consent. Edging has a time and place, but even I know when enough is enough. Now, answer me honestly. Would you like to come?”

She taps her foot. Sucks her teeth.

“I’m not _your_ sub.”

_Not yet._

“I know.”

Her arms cross. Her chest puffs.

And he swears he can see the outline of her nipples through the soft fabric of her dress.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’d like to come.”

His blood runs hot, but he must be sure.

“And may I?”

“May you what?”

He can’t tell if he’s being teased. It’s fucking _exhilarating._

“May I make you come, Rey?”

The seconds feel like hours and he is not a patient man.

“Yes, you may.”

He tries to hide the flood of relief-tinted arousal that courses through him at the words.

“Good.”

He sits back in the cozy armchair, beckons with two fingers curled in a crude pantomime. 

“Come.”

“You haven’t even touched me yet. Seems a bit unrealistic.”

“Rey,” he growls to cover the surprising bit of amusement he feels. 

And she takes pity on him, striding across the balcony with a ginger grace.

“Are you sore?” he asks, patting his lap in what he hopes is a clear enough invitation.

It is.

She spreads her thighs over his, her calves on either side of him, pressed into the wide leather armchair. Her cunt hovers in the minuscule space between his legs, dress floating out over his lap, covering nearly everything worth seeing. 

He swears he can feel the warmth of her seeping into him.

“A bit,” she admits, steadying herself with hands against his chest. 

And he settles into the chair, welcomes the weight of her, lays his palms over the backs of her hands, leans forward to brush a breath of a question against her ear.

“May I feel where you’re sore, Rey?”

She shudders, and it feels like a win.

“Yes,” she breathes. “But my ass, just the outside, I can’t—”

“Rey, I would not breach your ass without lube. I just want to feel if you’re still stretched out.”

Her thighs tremble. She leans more of her weight into him, so trusting. So exquisite.

“Stoplights?”

Another nod.

“Color?”

“Green. So green. Touch me, please.”

“‘Sir.’”

And she sits back just an inch, grabs one of his hands to skirt under her dress, fingertips meeting soft, smooth thigh.

“Touch me, Sir.” There’s a frustrated edge to her voice that he relishes, content to tease _just_ a bit. 

But only just. 

She deserves to come, after all.

“No more _‘please,’_ Rey?” He traces his thumb across the juncture of her cunt and thigh, fairly certain she hasn’t bothered with underwear. He hardens again at the thought, hopes she can’t feel it from her suspended position, forces himself to maintain his composure even as her body chases pleasure from his hands.

She rocks her hips against empty air, grips his collar as she leans in.

“Please,” ghosts over his ear, “Sir,” a bit to the lobe, “touch,” a lick to the shell, “me.” And she pulls back to peer into his soul. “Did I get that right?”

He moves quickly, three fingers pressing against the sore and stretched rim of her ass in an instant.

He revels in her little gasp, eyes still locked in a heated embrace, a whine trapped in her throat as he teases the rim, keeping to his promise not to breach her. She’s warm to the touch, and yes, still a bit stretched.

“Quite a mouth on you. Are you sure you’re a sub?”

“When I want to be,” she replies, hand at his collar tightening as she rocks against him.

There’s not a chance she won’t feel his cock now, straining against his zipper. All she’d have to do is shift her hips just—

_Fuck._

She’s warm and definitely staining his pants and he feels _alive_ with her on his lap.

He gives her stretched rim one more teasing press, leans in to caress her ear with a promise.

“I’m going to fuck you here one day.”

And she gifts him with a gorgeous half laugh, half whine.

“We’ll see.”

He’s not used to being tested, but he is undeterred. In fact, he feels practically _invigorated_ at the promise of a battle. He can see it in his mind’s eye, a tangle of limbs, a push and pull, sweet acquiescence; the craving overwhelms him.

And he finally cannot hold back from feeling her any longer, pulling the fingers at her ass away to rest at her waist, bringing his other hand beneath her dress to feel the dripping seam of her cunt.

He wants to ruin her.

_She just might ruin him, instead._

She drips for him, a single finger pressing into her with ease, her ragged exhale like coming home, if he had one. Sure, he has a place where he lives, and sometimes sleeps, and even on occasion fucks—but home? He thinks that might be her cunt, eagerly accepting another finger beside the first like it was just waiting for him to take up residence.

She moans into his neck, low and brazen as she had on the stage except now it’s because of _him,_ for _him,_ even if the passersby below may be deigned with a note of her shameless symphony.

And yet every single sound is honest, not at all for his benefit. She just _is._ She chases her delayed pleasure in his lap and the fact that he knows he can’t fuck her fills him with something he can’t name.

She grinds her hips down, around, chasing sensation as her little puffs of air grace his skin.

“‘S good,” she murmurs in his ear. 

“I should hope so,” he whispers back, curling his fingers until she lets out another little noise somewhere between a huff of annoyance and a whimper of pleasure.

“You’re so sensitive, Rey. Waited for me for so long. It’s not going to take much at all, is it?” Her grip of his shirt is deadly, bravado melting away with every stroke of his hands. Her desperation goes straight to his ego, heady and intoxicating.

He pets at her hip bone as he goes in for the kill. The thumb of his hand between her legs ghosts over where his fingers stretch her cunt, collecting a bit of her bountiful wetness before coming to trace circles over her clit. The effect is instantaneous: her thighs tremble as he presses at one side of the swollen nub, then the other, testing to see what makes her gasp, what makes her whine, and what makes her walls clench around him.

He wants that clench around his cock. 

Patience. 

A virtue he rarely possesses, and yet…

“Please,” she whines, and he relishes in his penetration of her walls, stripping them away until nothing is left but her need to come in his hands.

_On_ his hand.

The movement of her hips is more frantic now, chasing her release, but her torso is unsteady, thrashing. He can’t keep her in place, can’t focus his attention where she needs him.

“Rey,” he tsks in her ear, “stay still and I’ll give you what you need.”

“I—I can’t—I need—” _help_ goes unsaid, her entire upper body trembling, a bowstring pulled taut into the instant before letting go.

She’s been on edge for far too long, control of her body first ceded to a crowd for reasons yet unknown, and then to him in a display of trust he does not intend to misplace. After her performance, he knows she must be aching—for release, yes, but also for rest. It’s a wonder she’s made it this long holding herself up, and he curses his inability to make her come before her muscles gave way, hopes she will forgive him. He needs to guide her, hold her, carry her to the edge of that glorious cliff himself.

And push her over it.

He has an idea, prays the only color that passes her lips is that of her gorgeous eyes, green and sweet and imploring before she falls against his chest yet again.

“Shh, sweet thing. I’ll help you.”

He keeps up the movement of his fingers beneath her dress, removes the hand at her waist to snake it between their bodies, higher, higher, pressing his spread hand against her chest in an offering of balance. He is content to stop there, just below her collarbones, but his fingers twitch, betraying his desire, craving ascent.

He watches the realization flash in her eyes, followed by such a sharp surge of arousal he’s surprised she doesn’t just come right then.

She grips his imploring wrist, guides him to wrap his hand around her willing throat. He covers the entirety of her sweet expanse of flesh, feels her gasp in his palm, the little _green_ caught in her throat, silent as she mouths the word.

_He_ caught it. Squeezed for the briefest of moments until its path was cut short.

And finally, her cunt mimics his hand, clenching as release consumes her. 

She lets herself fall entirely boneless as her cunt spasms, head lolling forward into his welcoming hand. He doesn’t press at her windpipe, allows her the free flow of air as he anchors her at the sides of her throat, thumb and pointer finger at her jaw. 

All her body has to do is come. 

And she does.

Beautifully.

Exquisitely.

_Breathlessly._

He’s not restricting her air flow, etiquette and experience dictating his confidence in that fact, but her moans turn silent, mouth open in a frozen picture of bliss for a suspended moment between his fingers before she lets out a final, small hiccup of pleasure.

“Breathe, Rey, that’s a good girl,” he praises, moving his hand from the front of her neck to the back, cradling, tucking her into the crook of his shoulder. She smells like sweat and sex and rainwater and he wants to bottle it up and drink her for breakfast every fucking morning.

“Fuck,” she wheezes, incredulous, into his neck. She’s gloriously spent. _He_ did that. Not some damn machine. _Him._

He barely recognizes himself, but he refuses to dwell on such trivialities when the most exquisite creature he’s ever known is panting in his lap.

“If you could have anything right now, what would it be?”

Whatever she says, he’ll give it to her. He has no doubt.

“McDonald’s,” she blurts on a ragged exhale.

His fingers are still inside of her. He can smell her cunt in the air and he wants to drape her in diamonds and whisk her away to a private island with a fully equipped villa, restraints built into the bed and a playroom and an on call butler and anything her pretty little mind could dream of.

He thinks he might be having a stroke.

“You want...McDonald’s?”

She collects herself enough to lean back, braces herself on his chest again with those little hands he wants wrapped around his cock.

_Or maybe his throat…_

He keeps his hand on the back of her neck, lest she forget who just brought her to ecstasy.

“You asked,” she sasses with a small raise of shoulders, aiming for casual even as her thighs twitch in the aftershocks. “I’m starving. Prep for anal in front of a room of strangers is a fucking bitch. I want half the menu and twelve hours sleep. If I could have anything, that would be it.”

What on _Earth_ has he found tonight?

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So...more? Thoughts? Theories? Ideas? Requests 👀? 
> 
> Please let me know in the comments and/or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/beccastanz)!


End file.
